An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Clint pulled up to a stop a couple dozen yards from the pickup spot when he caught the scent of blood and gunpowder. Weird. He was upwind from all the bleeding bad guys.
It didn’t take long to find the source of the smell. On the edge of this awkward little park – a remnant strip between a cornfield and a highway on the back side of a Jersey commercial district – there was a total bloodbath. His stomach fell, fear and anger battling it out as the point of the car bombs became all too clear.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” He spun another three-sixty, checked the trees to make sure he wasn’t about to get jumped, then smacked his right ear to switch the mic back on. “Cap, we have a situation. Evac to the jet now.”
There was a pause that was probably only two seconds, but felt like forever. Clint scanned over the gore fest again and anxiously flicked the grip on his bow. If Cap didn't answer, he was gonna have to start running real fucking fast.
“What's the situation, Hawkeye?” came Rogers’ Serious Business Voice. “We're still working on wrap-up.”
“Someone got Barnes,” Clint blurted.
His announcement was met with another horrible pause. He was about to chew through his bracers. He really wished Nat was here.
“Repeat that, Agent,” Cap said sharply.
“Someone got Barnes. The Soldier,” Clint corrected. “He's not at evac, and there's… a lot of blood.”
